Date: Fri, 21 Aug 2009 15:25:29 +0100
From: J Smith
Subject: Private Show
Warning: this is erotica, written for adults. If you're underage, write
and remind me what that feels like.
*****
PRIVATE SHOW
~ For J.A. Welcome home.
People take too much gear to the beach.
I watched one family as they set up camp to my left. French, I thought,
but the wind carried their chatter away from me and I couldn't tell for
sure. An older woman was in charge, a severe looking matriarch but a woman
nonetheless, huge breasts and sagging belly contained in a capacious black
one-piece swimsuit. Her brood went about their various pre-assigned tasks.
Hers was an all-female group but for a single young man, who removed his
shirt to expose a hairy chest and tummy, and strong, firm arms as he swung
a mallet against the end of a thick metal pole, driving it hard into the
sand. Daughters and daughters-in-law created order, staking out their
pitch while grandchildren happily shed clothes, eager to be splashing in
the waves. Chairs, coolboxes, a portable barbeque, rugs, blankets and
towels were all arranged around the spot where the young man erected a
large, much-used parasol: shade, signpost, territory marker, totem pole.
Do Not Lay Your Towel Near Us, said the faded green and orange stripes of
the tatty, fringed umbrella.
The hefty matron took her seat in the shade, and the younger women settled
around her. She missed her husband, who had died the previous year; and
while it was a fine thing to have her girls around her on a sunny day at
the beach, she was sad to think she'd never hear her husband laugh again,
or see him play with the grandchildren, or feel his urgent, blunt hardness
inside her.
The young man – her youngest child; a surprise long after the matriarch
thought her family was complete – commenced the familiar towel routine.
Facing away from his family, he wrapped a small, threadbare towel around
his waist, snagged his tan shorts and black underwear out from underneath,
stepped into a pair of snug blue swimming trunks and pulled them up in the
same action as discarding the towel. At the very end of this age-old
manoeuvre, he revealed a glimpse of the top of a hairy crack as the
swimmers were pulled up over his backside. He re-arranged his balls
left-handed as he marshalled the younger kids to the edge of the water.
Just that briefest contact with his nuts made him recall the previous week,
and the unexpected and amazing feeling of a soft tongue on his scrotum. He
was desperate for it to happen again, and there was every chance it would,
very soon. And then he was in the sea with the little ones, and memories
of his first four blowjobs were temporarily swept aside as he splashed
around, six years old again.
From virgin sand to family camp in under five minutes. Impressive, in a
way.
Not my thing, though. When I go to the beach, I take only towel, book and
water. If I want shade, I will leave. If I need to grease up with sun
lotion, I will apply it beforehand. If I want food, I will go to a bar and
buy it. Beaches are about minimums. They are about stripping yourself of
the mundane and being free of clutter for a while. And clothes. There's
no point going to a beach if you're going to wear a shirt or cover your
legs. Beaches are about skin, in its many beautiful tones and colours.
Only when in the shower and when making love do people reveal so much skin
as they do on the beach. And beaches are about elements. I go to the
beach to feel wind, heat and water on my skin. To be warmed by the sun and
to plunge into cool sea. To relax and to be rejuvenated.
And to look at hot guys, obviously.
The beach was filling up as the after lunch crowd arrived. Earlier I'd had
the place to myself but I didn't object to this invasion. People are
interesting on the beach. They disclose things that aren't evident in the
office, and they behave with less caution than they do at home. They
remove their inhibitions as they remove their clothes. They are uncovered,
naked. They wear their thoughts on the outside, and they show their
desires as clearly as swimwear reveals skin.
Among the newcomers was a group of five Spanish girls. Their camp was
messy and informal, a number of overlapping towels with a pile of bags, and
they sat, lounged and reclined more or less in a heap, tightly-knit and
intimate, a close group of girlfriends with conversation their only intent.
The strong breeze carried their speech directly to me, rapid, guttural and
noisy. At least two spoke at every moment, and sometimes all five, yet
they seemed to follow the many simultaneous strands of their discussion
with ease. Magazines were passed around and commented on, phone calls
taken, text messages shared, and regular waves of laughter swept through
the group in delighted squeals. Their beautiful honey brown bodies were
adorned only by skimpy bikinis and sunglasses, and they massaged low factor
sun oil into each other's skin with the familiarity of sisters.
One of the girls, in fact the eldest although they were all much the same
age, enjoyed this chance to be with her friends. She had a great secret to
tell, but it needed to remain undisclosed just a little while longer. And
then, when she was sure of what was happening, she would tell them – and
how excited they would be! Even as she smiled to herself, right in that
instant, she thought she could still feel the two loads of hot semen her
lover had splashed over her breasts the night before. What a revelation he
was. So beautiful, so masculine, so surprisingly sensitive. Just the
thought of him made her tremble with a new desire. She momentarily closed
her eyes and blocked out the animated conversation of her friends.
Tonight, she decided. Tonight she would give him what he'd been aching
for. Tonight. Because she wanted it just as much.
I turned round to lie on my stomach facing the dunes with my feet pointing
towards the sea, and saw another pair of new arrivals. A middle-aged man
and a boy aged perhaps ten. From the boy's happy, innocent outlook, his
lopsided face and his charming interest in everything and everyone, it was
clear he was a Downs syndrome child. He was delighted with sand, eager to
get into the sea, particular as to where the towels were laid and worried
about the wind. The older man, in long red shorts and a black muscle vest,
assuaged him on every point then stripped the boy naked, coated him with a
high factor sun cream and then helped him into a pair of big, baggy swim
shorts. No towel manoeuvre, no coy messing about, just pants down and
trunks on. The boy was so delighted with his new shorts that he asked the
neighbouring couple, who had paid precisely no attention, whether they
agreed that they were the best swimming shorts ever. The couple had been
stretched out side-by-side snoozing and hadn't developed an opinion on the
matter, but they were friendly and agreed that the shorts were very smart.
I noticed that a cordial conversation then ensued between the married
couple and the guy in the red shorts. Kids, like dogs, are great
conversation starters. Was he the boy's father? I wasn't sure. The more
I watched him smile and converse in faltering French – the couple were
Swiss – the more I realised he was hot. For sure he was more man than
boy, and with a great smile, but there was something of the dude about him
too. Caring, courteous and cool, all rolled together.
The dude wasn't to know, but the Swiss couple couldn't have children of
their own. This had been a great disappointment to them, but now they'd
accepted it. Adoption and fostering weren't for them, so they'd set about
re-ordering their priorities and embracing the possibilities of a life
without children. A strong, deeply loving and mutually dependent couple,
they'd decided that instead of bringing up children they would devote their
spare time to their marriage: to travel to interesting places, to drink
good wine and to have the best sex they could. They were dozing on the
beach because they were tired from the previous evening, which they'd spent
making their first porno film; a gift to themselves for their tenth
anniversary. They'd hired a set and a director and a couple of cameramen,
and had the time of their lives making love on film in dozens of ridiculous
positions, giggling at the silliness of it, but on fire with the sexiness.
They planned to make one every year and build up a private archive that
captured for all time the physical love that bound them together. The
first one was in the bag, money shots and soundtrack and all, and the guy
they'd hired was editing it and would give them the final cut by the end of
the week. As the Downs boy asked them about his shorts, they were both
jolted back to the reality of spending an afternoon on the beach. What a
charming boy. And then he was off, moving his butterfly-like attention on
to something else, and they lay down again, sad once more about the absence
of children, but not so sad that they couldn't smile, cuddle and kiss.
Another family unit had pitched up a little way off: a couple and a teenage
boy no more than fourteen. Everything gave them away as Russian, and
completely unhappy. The skinny woman wore a bikini with faux diamond dust
glinting in a swirly design on the large breast cups, and shiny beads
dangling at her hips. Her gold beach sandals, with substantial heels, also
shone in the sun as did the long formal earrings she wore either side of
her fully made-up face. Her bleached hair was scraped back, piled up on
top and held in place with a clip covered in yet more sparkles. I watched
as she removed her gleaming sunglasses, carefully folded them and placed in
them in a brilliantly shiny specs case which she inserted into a small
designer bag, possibly labelled VULGARI. Spread-eagled on the sand, she
ignored her husband and son completely and concentrated on broiling her
pale skin.
In fact she was losing herself in fantasy. She found that when she was
stretched out in the path of the sun, she could manage to forget the
tedious reality of her marriage and remember the three men that she could
have had instead. Vitaly, with his gappy smile and his soft hair, who had
kissed her in the park behind the zoo and promised he would work every hour
so she could have nice things. Sasha, with his broad shoulders and his
taciturn solemnity. She'd misunderstood Sasha. She thought he'd been too
quiet, but too late she realised that strong and silent was a devastating
aphrodisiac, and that a man who spoke only when he had something to say was
greatly to be preferred to a man who lied every time he opened his mouth.
And finally Sergei. Sergei the slippery, Sergei the charmer. Sergei who
could fuck like a Soviet tank. She parted her legs slightly, feeling the
warmth of the sun on the inside of her thighs. Never far beneath the
surface of her memory, she could always recall Sergei.
Sand claimed and bags arranged, the male members of the Russian clan began
their own version of the towel trick. This time a family bond permitted
the father to hold the towel for his son, allowing easier movement. The
son was exquisite. A new adolescent on the cusp of the very first stages
of manhood. His limbs were too long, like they had grown overnight; his
face clear and honest, his smile shy, his blue eyes luminous. His skin was
pale like his mother's, his short hair very blond, and though his physique
was still that of an overgrown boy, his legs shone with some golden down.
His upper lip glistened with the first sign of facial hair, though it would
be years before he needed to shave. He was awkward and ungainly, unsure of
himself and his body, embarrassed by everything. His father held the towel
around his son's hips and drank in the sight of him lowering his underwear.
The boy looked away so he didn't meet his father's eye as he quickly pulled
on his own board shorts. They were cheap and discoloured, but they gave
him some security from the perils of being fourteen and on a beach.
The son was in fact boiling with sexuality. In the last year he had
discovered what all his classmates already knew, and masturbation had
become a fanatic, frenzied, desperate necessity. Hour after hour, day
after day, the desire never diminished. He could not stop thinking about
it. He planned the times when he could be alone to feed this new, furious
need, and outside the blessed hours of bed he crammed his habit into the
smallest secret corners of the day, because he knew that if he didn't, the
constant thoughts of girls and breasts and legs and underwear and lips and
bras and nipples and eyes and the curve of a neck and the line of a thigh
and the smoothness of a bum and the sexiness of beautiful little toes and
the unbearable, light-headed ecstasy of feminine fingers sliding slowly
into a pair of lacy knickers would overwhelm him and he would explode in a
shower of backed-up super-heated spunk. He didn't know if it was normal to
feel like this, and he had nobody to talk to about it. He had no older
brother, and his friends at school thought he was a just a pretty-boy
simpleton. And no way could he talk to his father. So he kept it to
himself, and he just wanked and wanked and wanked in a frantic effort to
keep ahead of the hormonal surge. Three times today already, but an
afternoon at the beach would leave him in a jam. Maybe he could sneak off
somewhere, or maybe he could persuade his mother they needed to go and get
an ice cream so he could grab three minutes in a café loo, which was all he
needed.
The son was then compelled to hold the towel in similar fashion for his
father. The father took way longer than necessary to change his gear,
speaking all the time in aggressive, pushy Russian. The boy looked away,
mortified, and the father pulled the boy's chin back to face him, forcing
the boy to look at his naked body, and talking for another long while until
he stepped into a pair of tiny red Speedos. He pouted as he wriggled into
them, and then seemed to use both hands to arrange himself. The boy
blushed furiously but was finally allowed to remove the towel. The father
was mid-to-late-thirties, brown hair and eyes, hairy chest and furry beer
belly. The small red briefs under the overhanging stomach looked
ridiculous and vaguely obscene. There was nothing mighty crammed in there
but still his packet drew attention to itself like a bargain sticker in a
supermarket. Ready for swimming, he headed for the sea and when the boy
didn't follow, he came back and put his arm around the boy's shoulder and
pulled him along. The son didn't want to swim, but he wasn't given any
option.
In fact the father was a seething mass of prurience, jealousy and
frustration. Forced into marriage by his own father, and held there by
iron-clad conditions that would see his substantial income and several
houses vanish should he renege, he had made it clear from the beginning
that he could have no love for his wife. He cruised the parks of Moscow
till the early hours looking for hard masculine men to suck and to give his
ass to, and loved nothing more than being used by two or more guys that he
would never see again. Promiscuity flowed in his very veins. He had never
wanted a boyfriend or a full-time lover, and he felt his wife was as good a
cleaner and cook as any ethnic girl he could employ. But he'd been as
surprised as she was when one night, after another unspeakable
embarrassment trying to meet his father's overriding and most terrifying
stipulation, he managed to turn away from the intense gay piss orgy he was
watching on the big screen in his bedroom and ejaculate while stuffing his
penis between her soft labia. He went flaccid instantly, and couldn't look
her in the eye, but somehow, despite the unpromising start, one of his
little swimmers ran the course and made the match. Alexander, his pride
and joy, was born early the next year. He had a son! His own father was
appeased. His wife had a role and a purpose. He celebrated by attending a
private party in a friend's apartment where a dozen eastern European
pornstars danced and stripped and flashed their big cocks, and, for a price
that every guest thought nothing of, whored themselves till breakfast the
next day. He had a strong, adult need for sex and went about fulfilling it
by taking whatever opportunities he could. He wasn't above cruising every
guy in a bar till he got a taker. He knew straight guys could sometimes
get desperate enough to be interested, and at every moment he was sniffing
for such a possibility. He paid for escorts as often as he bought meals.
And he certainly wasn't above preying on a fourteen year old who'd been
caught short and grabbed a private three minutes in a café loo, and since
his own son had reached the brink of manhood he had been consumed with
jealousy at the perfection of the boy's body, his innocent looks, his soft
penis and his wide eyes. It was all he could do not to sink to his knees
when the boy shyly dropped his pants within the enforced communality of the
shared beach towel.
The dude watched their towel scene as closely as I did. When it was over
and the father plunged into the surf leaving the boy doubtful at the
water's edge, I caught the dude's eye. He gave a subtle nod of mock
despair with a slight shrug. Even over the distance between us, and
through two sets of sunglasses, his meaning was clear. Our first hint of
communication.
A group of Italian guys arrived. This being a cosmopolitan beach on an
international island, I was used to a variety of languages drifting on the
breeze. But they were good looking fit guys, and Italian always sounds the
most pleasant to an eavesdropper, so I hoped they would settle nearby.
They showed no sign of sitting down at all until they nearly tripped over
the pile of Spanish girls and suddenly their group subconscious dictated
that they should pitch up just alongside. The Italians numbered four, and
the five Spanish girls took just two seconds, and without breaking their
conversation, to register the newcomers, count them, assess them and form a
favourable opinion without revealing that they had even noticed them. If
things panned out a certain way, one of the girls could be disappointed and
a frisson of competition ran through them. I settled back to watch. This
could be interesting. The dude was watching too, I think.
The Italians were far too cool to actually sunbathe or swim, or do anything
beachy other than preen and pose. I went out with an Italian once. He was
beautiful and sexy yet vulnerable and corroded by vanity. Four more such
specimens were before me now. They all had the kind of body that had been
super at 18 and amazing at 21, but would soon begin to soften and take on
weight. Gay guys blessed with one of those Italian bodies would have
preserved it for life, but these guys had only a few more years to
capitalise on them before they were gone for good. Taut and lithe,
athletic and boisterous, they joked among themselves and knocked a ball
around with the sole purpose of showing off and making an impression.
Straight guys can have a refreshing, uncontrived attraction. None of these
guys trimmed their body hair or went in much for grooming at all, and it
gave them a clean, naturally sexy look. All wore long shorts that hung low
on the hips and came to the knees or below, and the tallest one had a
tattoo on his calf. The Spanish girls, outwardly disinterested, betrayed
their real attention with a sudden spike in the vivacity of their chatter.
In fact the subtleties of the situation were more complicated than any
could know, and probably all were headed for disappointment. The eldest
Spanish girl was not interested in the Italians as she had a new lover of
her own, and two of her friends had both instinctively singled out the same
guy, the tall one with the Celtic band tattoo on his calf. On the other
hand, the Italians thought that all the girls were great and there was
nothing to choose between them, except for the tattooed guy himself, who
cared not a jot for girls of any kind, Spanish or otherwise. He hung
around with this crowd because they were funny, had hot bodies and liked to
play football, but mainly because one of them was so damn sexy that the
tattooed guy was kept in that delicious place permanently on the edge of
arousal merely by being in frustrated close proximity. He had cared for a
girl once before. He'd thought, like he believed his pals thought, that
when you got to sixteen it was the thing to do to go with a girl and let
her suck you while you fondled her breasts. It happened a couple of times
just like that, but it wasn't something he was bothered about doing again.
But when the girl's own brother had discreetly taken him aside and
initiated a different kind of fun, he was electrified by the turn of
events. He had got drunk on the pleasure. He had kissed ravenously and
sucked like a demon. He had nearly fainted from the ecstasy of having his
ass deflowered by a hungry mouth, a warm, wet tongue and a stubbly jaw.
And he'd known he was home when he penetrated the brother, deep and hard,
and he rode the wave until his climax nearly knocked him out. That was
just the beginning. Now he was alive to the experience, he strongly felt
this new world needed sharing. Maybe, just maybe, he could show his sexy
beach buddy that girls could offer some things but boys could offer others.
He was far from convinced it would work out. But he had to give it a go.
Desire was like that. If you didn't try, you'd never know.
Suddenly the dude stood up and I saw him clearly as he lifted his black
vest over his head. He was tall and suntanned. Correction: not tanned, he
was brown. His skin was not the superficial shade of a tourist who roasted
for a week before proudly heading back to the cloudy north, it was the
colour of a man who lived in warm weather year-round and had no need to
sunbathe. His build was lean, and even though at around forty he was the
oldest guy on this part of the beach, he was by a long way the most
attractive, and other than the Russian boy he was probably the slimmest.
But he wasn't scrawny or underweight, his build was simply that of a man in
superb shape. No muscle bulk. No bulging pecs. No chunky guy who had
firmed up in the gym. This was a slim, wiry guy, sinew and limbs, taut
skin and smile. Something stirred in my groin. The cropped silvery hair,
the tight chest and flat stomach, the dark fuzz between his nipples and the
dense trail south into a pair of silky red shorts. The long brown legs.
The Downs boy had none of his looks, and it was difficult to imagine they
were father and son. Yet the dude was patient, caring and loving, and I
watched him help the boy for a number of minutes as he got used to the
goggles he was trying to fix to his face. And as the boy wandered towards
me on his way to the sea, the dude looked straight at me and dropped his
red shorts. Beneath were a pair of high cut white briefs, not swimmers at
all, but regular quality underwear, which seemed to extend his legs forever
upwards at the sides and present a beautiful manly bulge in front. Then he
stowed his sunglasses safely and followed the boy. Evidently not having
come prepared to swim, he was going in the water wearing just his undies.
My heart jumped. The dude – and his fine body – passed close by me
as he caught up with the boy, and a glint of silver on one finger flashed
in the sunlight. As he retreated I swivelled slightly to look back over my
shoulder and saw a superbly rounded pair of hard buns working under a tight
spread of white cotton. Sensational. As I was looking, he turned back,
and our eyes met for a second. Shit! He had caught me!
A usually reliable rule of thumb at a regular beach is that a lone guy will
be gay, and guys in groups of three or more are straight. Guys in twos can
fall into either category depending on age. Straight guys are more likely
to go to the beach with just one pal the younger they are; as they grow
older, larger, mixed groups are more comfortable. Gay guys start to go the
beach in pairs early and don't stop. The young couple to my left were one
such. Gay, for sure. Beautiful, not really. Confident, not at all.
Their two towels were perfectly abutted edge-to-edge as if they were two
halves of a larger sheet, which made for a neat base camp, but between them
was an ocean of space. They were an odd pair, neither more than twenty. A
very pale guy was sitting up, wearing John Lennon sunglasses, with long,
wispy red-brown hair that was gathered in a ponytail at his neck and then
tied back underneath itself until it was clubbed into a ball. It was a
strange look that did nothing for him. I guessed he was German. He was
reading a novel in English, but hadn't yet turned a page. His partner was
very Mediterranean, possibly Greek. Beautiful brown skin, very dark hair,
a big nose and a serious look. A close couple who'd been arguing,
possibly; or lovers who'd lost the spark but were trying to rekindle
something; or maybe even two guys from a one night stand who out of
loneliness had decided to extend their nocturnal rutting into a beach
picnic and, clothed and sober, had found themselves utterly incompatible.
They spoke not at all.
The Greek lounged back on his elbows, looking out to sea, while the German
tried to make sense of his book. The Greek was thinking of his previous
boyfriend, a much older man who had fucked him regularly and expertly but
not shown him any love. The German didn't have any former boyfriends to
think of, and was trying to read his book to take his mind, just for one
minute, off the previous night, when he and the Greek had made love for
about six hours without a break. If he could take his mind away from it
for just one minute, he would be able to have the pleasure of remembering
it all over again. There wasn't much sleep involved in having a boyfriend,
the German decided, but it was worth the fatigue in the afternoons. And it
was doing wonders for their English, as physicality aside they had no other
way to communicate.
I stood up briefly, partly to stretch my legs and partly to see if I could
see the dude. He and the boy were swimming some way out beyond the
splashing group of French children and the young man with the hairy crack.
From standing height I looked down and saw that though there was no vocal
interaction between the German and the Greek, their feet were in fact lined
up precisely, twenty wriggling toes all gently snuggled together, the nails
all neatly buffed and shining in the sun. I smiled. Maybe it wasn't that
they hadn't anything to say. Maybe it was that they hadn't learned how to
say it yet.
The Russian boy came back from his obligatory swim, and sat down next to
his unmoving mother. His father was still in the water, probably because
it gave him a better view of the four Italian guys who'd moved their
courtship dance to the edge of the sea. They were currently doing tricks
with their football and flicking it between them in a manner perfectly
contrived to splash their torsos with surf and then glint in the sun. The
tallest Italian guy didn't care whether the Spanish girls were watching,
because he could hardly tear his eyes from the heart-stopping perfection of
his buddy's chest misted in a sheen of salty spray. But he needed to,
because his perpetual half-hardon was aching to stiffen further, and though
his shorts were baggy and could hide a lot, he had a lot to hide.
I dozed. Always a possibility when your body is bathed in beautiful warm
light, it's a beach rule of mine never to resist the seductive wave of
sleep. I drifted into an intensely erotic daydream. A tall masculine man
stood behind me and, encircling me in his arms, he was kissing my neck and
running his hands over my chest and then he was sucking me as I cradled his
head in the sun and then I was splayed out at the very edge of the sea
while his hands massaged my hairy legs and his darting tongue made love to
my most private place and the waves broke over our bodies and then I was on
my back in the sand while his firm fingers rubbed my nipples and brushed my
lips and then I was kissing him like we were hungry for touch and
togetherness and the delicious place where two guys can hang in the balance
of orgasm, where skin glows and breath catches and balls tighten and cocks
throb as solid and rigid and heavy as marble posts and where brown limbs
and suntanned bodies tumble over and over and over.
I felt something on my skin: a sudden splash of reality that caused me to
float back to full consciousness. It was a few drops of cool seawater
which had fallen on me as the dude in the white briefs and the boy passed
by returning to their towels after a long swim. When my eyes focussed,
they feasted. His undies, skimpy anyway and now drenched, had become
little more than clingy, see-through nothingness. His legs looked browner
and even longer than before, and the twin halves of his hard ass rode high
and tight. For all the decency his briefs afforded him he may as well have
been wearing nothing at all. Why does a grown man swim in revealing
underwear on a public beach? Surely because the boy had wanted it, and
that the man had no swimmers with him was therefore irrelevant. The
glories of his body were visible solely because of his devotion to the boy,
and that revelation turned me on even more. I sighed deeply and turned
away. It was so rude to stare.
But I couldn't help it. My eyes were drawn back to him after about one
second. The dude and the boy reached their patch of sand. I was lying on
my stomach facing them directly. The dude bent right over to pick up a
small towel, so that his legs were taut and his ass cheeks splayed under
the soaking, elastic fabric. Oh God. I had to suppress a strong primal
urge to sneak up behind him on my knees, bury my face in his buns and try
to chew my way through the thin, clammy cotton. What an ass. What a total
marvel. He set about drying the boy off. He towelled him both roughly and
with care, and then tried to persuade him that he no longer needed the
goggles. I stared, unblinking, not caring if I was observed. As his arms
and torso moved, his cheeks tightened and strained under the wet briefs,
stretching the transparent cotton across the hard muscle and parting his
crack, luscious and secret and dark. My head dropped towards the sand.
Oh God. I couldn't look any more.
Yes I could.
He stood upright. The muscles in his legs and ass relaxed and his back
reappeared, rising up to remind me of his height and his cropped, shining,
silvery hair. I watched, captivated, fully alive yet hardly breathing.
The boy was freed of towel and goggles, and wandered off. The dude kept
hold of the small towel and applied it to his own head, rubbing his hair
vigorously two-handed. Still facing away from me, he dabbed his chest and
arms and then rubbed it over the dripping fabric covering his ass. The wet
cotton didn't react well to being towelled and it scrunched, riding up over
one cheek. His tan, it was now obvious, was all over. Then he turned
round.
Sensually, the beach is a place of extremes. Of dazzling light and dark
glasses. Of hot sun, scorching sand, cool breeze and cold beer. The
stimuli of a beach somehow get inside me. The sights and sounds and smells
lay me wide open. They strip away my armour and my reserve, and expose a
daring psychological nudity. They tap into me as a younger man. They
evoke a long-forgotten hedonism and pump the raw ecstasy of a different
decade into my veins. They speak to me as I once was, and remind me that I
am still that person. On the beach, I am vulnerable to dreams, memories,
feelings, regrets. On the beach, sunk in drowsy sensuality, the boundaries
of reality blur and senses overlap. On the beach, the pleasing smoothness
of warm skin has a smell. Colour has a heart-beat. Hardness has a taste.
My cock throbbed, painfully.
He faced me now. Still drying himself, but the warmer the sun on his chest
and back, the wetter and more uncomfortable the skimpy cotton became. He
shoved the small towel down the back of his ass, between his skin and the
wet briefs, and rubbed hard. This must have worked, but as the now baggy
briefs were pulled wide at the rear, so they clung tight like shrink-wrap
at the front. In a sudden snapshot I saw the clear outline of his cock,
even the ridge of its head. He removed the towel from behind, and I heard
the wet elastic slap back against his ass. He shoved the towel down the
front of his briefs and rummaged. The underwear seemed to have doubled in
size, and was doing nothing but keeping him wet. He realised this at the
same time I did. And without hesitation, he gave them up as a bad job. I
held my breath. Would he?
Yes he would. He dropped the briefs while standing, facing me. They fell
to his ankles and he stepped out of them while he held the towel in front
of his groin. I saw his long legs uncluttered now, from his calves up to
way north of his waist. He towelled his genitals one-handed. The action
was fast and regular, and his hips moved in synch. Then, casually and
without fuss, he moved the towel back to his ass, and dried it off
properly. A long, soft, brown cock, perfectly the colour of his legs, hung
heavily from a luxurious dark bush. It looked sumptuous, warm and
substantial – large too, considering how cold the water was – and as
he dried his ass, his crotch jiggled with the action of the towel and his
penis wagged lazily at me, inviting me, it seemed, to come closer and be
sociable, to smell the seasalt on his balls, to explore the foreskin, to
bury my nose in his bush and breathe deep.
It was an utterly unexpected moment. This was a public beach, yet there
was no messing with the towel manoeuvre. The transparency of his briefs,
although highly revealing, had kept him within the socially acceptable; now
his actions had something of the privileged camaraderie of the locker room,
even the familiarity of a partner. The nonchalance of stripping naked in a
public place made my heart race. And he'd done it for me. The Spanish
were too far off to care. The Swiss didn't notice and the Greek and the
German were occupied with themselves. One of the Italians, the tall one,
may have thrown a look for a second. But that was all. Nobody had seen.
Like the clandestine intimacy of a lover, who, standing in a crowded metro
train, secretly licks your ear and pushes his erection into your hip.
It had been a private show. Private for me.
Then still standing, and satisfied he was dry, he held his white briefs up,
flicked them, shook them and wrung them out, and then bending over again,
laid them out to dry in the sun. As he bent, I saw him in profile: tight
pecs, flat stomach and a large, floppy package that hung low, soft and
generous.
Oh God. Perfection.
The breeze dropped and the sun blazed, making my skin tingle. The vision
of the guy and the soporific warmth of the sun on my back tripped my body
into hyper-awareness. Ears prickled, chest pounded, legs tensed. The
sound of breaking waves receded into the distance and suddenly, in the
whole world, there was only me and my overpowering sexuality. My
granite-hard erection bore into my towel and I couldn't prevent my groin
starting a slow, shallow hump. My back arched and my knees spread slightly
to push my cock harder into the sand. A single droplet of sweat trickled
down my spine, tickling, and was absorbed by the waistband of the bone-dry,
dolphin-grey lycra of my snug swimming trunks. My ass clenched and
unclenched beneath the material, luxuriating in the blistering heat, hungry
and masculine, each involuntary contraction of my sphincter making my cock
even harder. My breath all but stopped, and I was balanced on a sensual
knife-edge, where the movement of a single hair could tip me over. I felt
the flowering of an orgasm in my loins; it rose and teetered, unfulfilled,
and faded to leave a shadow in my muscles. I sighed. Crisis averted. I
discreetly slipped my hand underneath my body to free my erection from the
trunks and let it lay comfortably under my stomach. It welcomed its
freedom with a long, sweet strand of honey. I rubbed it from my thumb
across my lips.
The dude sat down. He was still naked, but sat facing me, upright, his
knees drawn up close to his chest, his heels butted up to his ass. His
long penis lay heavily over his large ballbag and rested on the towel in
front of him. He reached for cigarettes and lighter. I was perfectly
lined up with his penis. I dropped my head till my chin was resting on the
backs of my hand, then looked along the sand and came face to face with his
large sheathed cockhead, the glans poking through and looking at me. He
sat there, unconcerned by his surroundings, and by his beach neighbours,
and most of all by me, staring him right in the eye. He toyed with a
cigarette without lighting it, apparently lost in thought.
I saw his face properly for the first time. I didn't attempt to conceal
the direction of my gaze, which was straight at him, through my sunglasses
all the way straight to his body, to his eyes. I wanted him to see how
much he had affected me. He was a good-looking man. Not ludicrously so,
but handsome and desirable. Our eye contact seemed to be deliberate and
sustained, and when I thought I had his attention I would look at his
penis. I wanted to send a sign – of approval, of solidarity, of
arousal, of anything – and I removed my sunglasses. There were a couple
of moments when we seemed to stare directly at one another, but he didn't
react. I was in awe of this guy. So sure of himself, so confident, so
genuine. And his penis was so beautiful. How could he be so soft, while I
was so hard? I humped the ground again, slowly and deeply; he must have
been able to tell.
After a while, he put the cigarette back in the packet, unsmoked. He
reached for his red silky shorts, and shook the sand out of them, still
sitting. Then there was another unexpected, perfect moment. He lifted his
feet off his towel, one at a time, to get his ankles into the shorts, and
then rolled quickly backwards onto his lower back, his legs rising in the
air, so he could pull the shorts on without standing up. It was a neat
manoeuvre, and another one which showed contempt for the prudery of those
who favoured the towel routine. But the effect of it was to present to me,
splayed and right in my eye line, with the view of a pair of large balls
dangling into his open trench, above his neat, clean sphincter. I've got a
body, a cock, and an ass, his actions seemed to say to me. And I've got a
smile too.
And god, did he have a smile. Sitting back up, he flashed a warm, friendly
grin. It sent a bolt to my balls. This beautiful man had cruised me in
the most public, sexual and amazing way I'd ever seen. And now he had
smiled.
Back in position with his shorts on, he replaced his sunglasses. Then he
looked round for the Downs boy who was playing in the sand, and lay down on
his side, facing me. Unlike the Russian woman who was perfectly positioned
to exploit every thousandth part of every ray, he just put his head down as
if he were in bed. I thought maybe he had done it deliberately so that he
could look at me from behind his sunglasses while I could see his chest,
but his utterly unmoving body convinced me that he'd just happened to
collapse that way. His breathing slowed. It left me in a haze of
delicious, confused possibility. What should I do now? Should I contrive
some way to flash my own erection? Should I attempt conversation? Or
should I wait till he woke? Would he let me snuffle in that perfect ass?
Would he let me chew on his nipples or bury my nose in his armpit? Would
he let me weigh those large balls in my hand while I slipped my tongue
under his foreskin? Would he part my legs?
From a secret vantage point in the dunes, Alexander stared agog at the
distant sight of one of the Spanish girls rubbing sun lotion into the
shoulders of another. With his board shorts hooked under his hairless
balls, he jerked frantically on his very hard penis. One minute passed,
then two, and even before the girls had recapped the bottle of factor 20,
he felt the familiar rush. He gasped as his young seed splattered onto the
hot, dry sand, leaving little blobs of dark moistness in an erratic shower.
He sank to his knees, temporarily relieved. He felt his shoulders burning,
and sadly began to tramp back to where his mother was still spread-eagled
and unmoving.
His mother was riding the delicious crest of a near-continuous sexual
climax that she'd managed to bring about purely by immersing herself
completely in the powerful memory of Sergei's strong, masculine thrusting.
It was something she had got very good at now, and in fact it was a
cornerstone of her own sex life. She had various occasional lovers, and a
convenient arrangement with one of the technicians in their apartment
building in Moscow, a virile young dynamo whom she suspected was servicing
half the unsatisfied housewives in the block, but since Alexander had been
born she had abandoned the idea of leaving her husband to find a more
suitable partner. This way she could materially have whatever she wanted,
was free to pursue any romantic or physical intrigue that fancied her, and
had unrestricted access to her son. So why wish for more? Love was
elusive anyway. And the memory of Sergei was with her always, and even
from years ago and thousands of miles away, he could somehow bring her to
the brink and leave her awash with physical pleasure. She sensed someone
approaching, broke her reverie and looked up. Ah, Alexander, she thought,
returning from his wank in the dunes. She was pleased. He looked relaxed
at last. The heap of Spanish beauties had knocked him sideways, and a
little personal time was quite in order in her view. Although he was
looking red on his shoulders. She reached for some high factor cream,
smiled lovingly at him, and beckoned him to sit next to her.
At a more distant location in the dunes, the tall Italian sat on a tuft of
flattened, coarse dune grass, made less uncomfortable by his long shorts
folded up underneath his ass. He was staring out to sea through his very
dark glasses, lost in a particular thought. His legs were spread wide and
the sun tingled on his pale thighs. Like the previous day, and the day
before that, the hairy Russian man in the red Speedos was kneeling,
hungrily feasting on the Italian's superb erection and occasionally pulling
on the stubby boner poking out under his own stomach. Away from his
hopeless quest in pursuit of his naïve beach buddy, the Italian had been
the recipient of many blowjobs over the last few years, and now he was a
good judge of what he liked. His particular enjoyment was when a man
brought him all the way from flaccid to orgasm using only his mouth. In
that respect, when, a couple of days before, he'd eventually given in to
the Russian's covert but relentless pursuit of him – right in front of
the Italian's buddies, and the Russian's own wife and son – he'd been
pleased to find himself on the receiving end of some world class head. On
that occasion, and at roughly the same time the following day when the
Italian had decided there was nothing stopping a re-run, that mouthwork had
extended southwards to his balls and beyond, and now on the third afternoon
the Italian was perfectly content to give the Russian access for as long as
he wanted.
His buddies were still on the beach showing off for the Spanish girls, and
they thought he'd gone back to the car to make a long call to his
girlfriend, a mysterious girl of no name that they'd never met because she
did not exist. One more month, the Italian decided. If he didn't find an
opportunity to lure his buddy into a situation by the end of the summer, he
would extricate himself from the group and go and get a boyfriend. Jesus,
he had had enough offers. But no boyfriend could ever give him the thrill
that he got when he saw his buddy smile, or chest a football, or plunge
into the water. The Russian worked slow and thoroughly. He deep throated
for long periods, groaning in ecstasy when he held the Italian's entire
shaft inside him. The Italian lay back against the hard, rough grass, and
stared up at the deep blue sky. It was easy to imagine the mouth belonged
to his buddy. Very, very easy.
The German couldn't resist any more, and though the Greek had warned
against public affection on the beach, he wriggled over until he was lying
next to him, propped up on his elbows. The Greek smiled, and ran his hand
down side of the German's flawless body. From shoulder to hip his skin was
pale, clear and virgin. He reached in their bag and withdrew a bottle of
complete sunblock, and started to apply it liberally to his boyfriend's
perfect white skin. Then he leaned over and kissed the German briefly on
his neck, and cuddled alongside him. How were they going to live together?
The Greek knew that the tug of war between sunny Mediterranean hedonism and
prevailing Catholicism would in time disturb the German, who was a Berliner
at heart, and knew that it was his right to kiss and hold hands and make
out whenever he wanted, and share a mortgage and marry and adopt kids. The
Greek felt it would be he who would have to compromise. But could he ever
live in Germany? Could he learn that strange language, and live without
the sun? He thought of the previous night. The German had an unbelievable
sensuality, a compelling, erotic innocence. The Greek's heart raced
whenever the German was near, and his cock throbbed relentlessly when they
were together. But there was more. There was something inside. He wanted
to be with the German so much that tears sometimes welled up. Maybe he
could live in Berlin. He would have to try.
Maybe it was five minutes, maybe it was ten. The dude woke. He glanced
around quickly, as if startled, to locate the boy, who was a little way off
digging in the sand. Then, relaxed, he stirred like a child in a cartoon,
stretching awkwardly and rubbing his eyes. He sat up again, in the same
position as before albeit wearing his shorts, facing me with his heels
pulled up to his ass cheeks and his knees against his chest. He stared out
to sea. Or was he staring at me? It was impossible to tell. Two more
minutes passed. Three.
He moved. He fumbled in a small bag, and pulled out his cigarettes. He
put one in his mouth without lighting it. Another minute passed. Then he
stretched his legs, yawned again, and stood slowly. Then he took a step,
and another. Both these steps were in my direction. So was the third.
Then he stopped, and looked at the boy again. The boy was safe. He took
more steps, until he was about three paces from me. Then he stopped
briefly, and took one more. Then he dropped to the sand, and sat facing
me. His legs crossed, his silky shorts shining in the light, his brown
body glowing, close enough to touch. He glanced over at the French sector.
"People take too much stuff to the beach, don't you think?" he said,
off-hand.
I cleared my throat. "Sure. Way too much."
He offered me a cigarette. I took it, unlit, although I gave up smoking
years ago.
"I prefer to pack light. But kids, y'know? They need loads of gear. My
nephew needs goggles. We have such a scene if they get forgotten."
I smiled.
The dude continued. "I forgot his swim shorts today..."
So you gave him your own, I thought. "But all's well as long you've got
the goggles?"
He nodded, laughing. The sound was intoxicating.
I looked around. The German and the Greek were dozing, cuddling together.
Likewise the Swiss. The Spanish girls were over the diversion of the
Italians and had gone back to their magazines and girl talk. The French
family were in full beach mode, watching the young man with the hairy crack
organise the squadron of children in a mini Olympics, races and relays and
long jump. The Italians, now numbered only three, had gone back to their
football. The Russian mother was talking softly with her son. Nobody was
paying any attention to the fact that two guys who had been eyeing each
other for an hour or so had finally struck up a conversation.
He lifted his hand, and carefully brushed some sand off my shoulder. I
started at the contact, and he looked at me questioningly, hoping he hadn't
crossed a boundary. I smiled again and he relaxed. Finally, he offered me
a light.
"Do you know, in fact I don't smoke," I said.
He smiled in the shy, endearing embarrassment of one caught in a ruse.
"Actually, neither do I."
***
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this and would like a list of the other
pieces I have archived at Nifty, please drop me an email at
jsmith381@hotmail.com